


Token

by laudatenium



Category: The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alcoholic Tony Stark, Emotional Constipation, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, On BOTH SIDES, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 12:32:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4960768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laudatenium/pseuds/laudatenium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony wants a drink.  So he calls his sponsor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Token

**Author's Note:**

> I AM A PIECE OF TRASH WHO GOT ALL HIGH AND MIGHTY ABOUT DOING THE BIG BANG BUT ULTIMATELY FAILED. I suppose this is an apology? Next year! Next year. *curls into a ball in a dark cave muttering to self* Next year.
> 
> Yeah, I know AA usually requires a sponsor to also be a recovering alcoholic, but I highly doubt Tony would be a regular AA meeting-goer. (Maybe someone dragged him to one once. It would be heart-wrenching whoever you imagine it to be. Someone should make a series of Tony’s friends dragging him to AA meetings.) Plus, with AA’s emphasis on religion . . . eh, you understand. But I can see Tony developing a piecemeal recovery program from multiple sources. But back to what I was saying, in the eyes of Tony Stark, who would be a better sponsor than Steve Rogers? (Maybe Carol. Someone write Carol being Tony’s sponsor, or Tony being Carol’s sponsor, or them being each other’s sponsor, or them setting up an Avengers Alcoholics Anonymous. Yeah. But, Stony. That’s my reason. Hush now.)
> 
> I know Tony technically did do something with AA???? But I have yet to read Demon in a Bottle, so I have little understanding of that period rn, just let me mess around.

Metal has always been his savior. It’s seen as cold and hard, unyielding, but it’s strong. It’s a constant. Friends come and go, die on you sometimes, but metal will always be there.

 

He built his armor from metal because he knew he could trust it.

 

But this is a danger that metal can’t defend him from. It may be possible to rewire his brain, enfold his bones over armor, but the phrase “iron will” is nothing more than a metaphor.

 

As much as metal is his strength, so flesh is his weakness. Metal isn’t tempted to drown itself in pleasure. Metal has no memories that are in need of drowning. Metal doesn’t feel, doesn’t hurt, doesn’t cry.

 

Metal isn’t tempted. That is what he must remind himself.

 

The weight of the bronze token in his hand is the only metal that can help him now.

 

One year. At his one year mark, Jan had thrown a party, because that’s just what she does. It was a nice party though, just close friends, Avengers. It wasn’t different from an average laze-about-the-house evening, except they’d put up a congratulatory banner with his name on it. And no one drank.

 

But that is one of the many wonderful things about the Avengers. They don’t need alcohol to throw a great party.

 

The highlight of the evening had been Jan presenting him with a small box, reading _To Tony, From Everyone_ , but it was clearly Carol’s idea, carried out by Jan. Inside was a bronze coin, about the size of a half-dollar, beautifully engraved with _Tony Stark - 1 Year in Recovery._

 

There had been offers to upgrade as years had passed, but Tony preferred to keep the one year token.

 

He has their support, he reminds himself. They care. They don’t want him to relapse. They are so proud that he has quit the habit. If he needs help, he can call on them.

 

 _You can call_ a voice whispers in his head. _You know he’ll understand._

 

Easier said than done. In his head, Tony knows he has Steve’s unwavering support. Steve knows his struggles. Steve had _told_ him, point blank, that if Tony ever was tempted, to call.

 

But Steve can also be a judgmental asshole at the best of times, so hence the hesitation.

 

It had seemed like a good idea. Who better to be his ally in the battle against alcohol than Captain America? Blindly, he thought facing Steve’s disapproval would be worse than a relapse. So the incentive not to drink would be . . . Steve not being disappointed in him.

 

Just because he was a genius didn’t mean his logic couldn’t be flawed.

 

He still wants a drink.

 

It’s late, very late, the persistent buzz of midtown down from a dull roar to a faint whine. Everything is just a bright as it always is, but in the early morning hours, the city that never sleeps has a bit of a lull. Offices mostly empty for the night, save the few who toiled on, or brokered shady deals, or fucked call girls after calling home that they had to work overtime. The business world is filled with slime. He almost prefers villains.

 

The air tastes of ozone. Thor is off doing . . . whatever he is doing, but thunderstorms can happen without him. The air is thick, cloying, the vague smoke-spice-rot scent of the city rising on the waves of heat. It is hot and muggy, and clouds are circling low, obscuring the antennas that top the skyscrapers. Dark, heavy clouds, grey and reflecting the orange of the city, rumbling and flickering in their depths.

 

There is a place that will deliver a couple blocks away. A touch of the phone and a few words, and a few bottles of whatever he fancies would be couriered over in less than ten minutes. He could feasibly be on his way into oblivion in less than half an hour.

 

He ran a finger over the words on the back of the coin. It was a prayer, but it resonated with him. He imagines his mother whispering it in his ear as she coached him in his bedtime prayers, soft and smoky, with a hint of an accent. _God grant me serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference._

 

He still wants a drink.

 

With a sigh, he slumps back in the deck chair and lets his head loll to the side. He closes his eyes, and wills something to happen. A tornado to form, someone to attack New York, his phone to buzz with a report saying that Reed Richards had finally reached maximum elasticity and will be forced to spend the rest of his life with a distended asshole. Anything.

 

Nothing happens.

 

He should go inside and try to sleep. If he can’t sleep, he should head down to his workshop. He should work on his backlog of paperwork. He should do something to take his mind off the siren call of alcohol.

 

He continues to sit there.

 

_Send me a sign. Anything._

 

A frigid drop of water hit his face, directly between the eyebrows.

 

With a groan, he pulls his phone out, and hits the 8 on speed dial. As it rings, he hunches over, wrapping an arm around his knees. Large cold drops fall slowly, dampening his hair and beading on his phone.

 

The person on the other side of the line answers. _“Ajax Liquor Store –“_ He hangs up.

 

He stares at his toe, at the ragged too-long nail, at the wiry curls decorating the knuckle. He has a strange attachment to that number. He keeps it on his phone for reasons unknown. Maybe it would be better to get rid of the number, but he clings to it, like people who save their dead mother’s voicemails.

 

Tony breathes, deep, in out, in out, then hits 2.

 

He answers on the second ring.

 

“Steve.”

 

 _“What is it, Tony?”_ Usually, Steve’s voice is alert, ready for action. Ready to leap out of bed into his patriotic suit. But right now, he sounds exhausted. Words husky and muddled from sleep. Tony wants to apologize and hang up, let the man get his much-needed rest, but he’s already alerted Steve that something’s wrong. Steve would never dump the phone and go back to sleep, not when he knows Tony would never call him at 3:58 in the morning without a very good reason.

 

The rain falls, heavy and free now. He does nothing to shield himself. He curls into himself more tightly, and presses his free hand over his eyes.

 

“I really, _really_ want a drink.”

 

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. _“I’ll be right up.”_

 

 

 

Steve finds him on the balcony, white tee and black briefs sticking to him, hair plastered to his face, limp in his deck chair, clutching his phone in one hand and the bronze token in the other, out on the balcony, out in the storm.

 

There follows a heavy sigh, and Steve ducking back inside for a moment to grab a blanket. He drapes it awkwardly around Tony, then carefully, ever so carefully, gathers Tony up in his arms. The only reaction Tony gives is to pull his limbs in close to ease the process, but otherwise allows Steve to manhandle him.

 

But it is very gentle manhandling.

 

Steve carries him inside, kicks the sliding door closed, and deposits Tony on a damask-covered ottoman, ever mindful to damaging the leather furniture. He takes a few afghans from the couch and wraps Tony up a little more firmly.

 

“It’s hot,” Tony complains.

 

“You’re shivering.” Steve presses the back of his hand to Tony’s forehead. “We need to get your body heat up before I’ll let you start complaining.”

 

Tony avoids suggesting what they could do to warm up. Force of habit, terror of the unknown, he can’t remember anymore. Just that Steve is here, but not as completely as Tony might want him.

 

“If I run a bath and dump you in, will you fuss?” Tony gives him a light chuckle, but honestly, it’s not that funny. “Fine. I’ll go dig up some towels and dry clothes. Will you cooperate with that?”

 

“Coffee, too,” Tony says meekly.

 

“Coffee it is then.” Steve nods, then moves away. Tony hears Steve bustling around the kitchen, scoping coffee grounds and running water. He must be in terrible shape, if Steve doesn’t even tease him for his coffee habit.

 

But then, Steve is always careful when the subject of alcohol is in the air. They haven’t mentioned it yet, but Steve will bring it up eventually.

 

He wrinkles his nose at the dampness of the blanket mound, but still wiggles deeper inside. The scent of dark roast is slowly leaching into the air, another layer to the comfort that the blankets and Steve’s presence gives.

 

But yes, he still wants a drink.

 

Steve coming up here and babying him drudges up a whole new set of issues that were very common to drown in liquor. Part of recovery is supposedly facing the emotional backlog that forces you to form whatever addiction you have. Sure, tendency towards addiction is hereditary, and if your family has a history, you should be extra watchful of yourself. But you can’t blame your parents for becoming an alcoholic. Maybe you can blame them for setting a poor example, or for messing you up, but the addiction is your own.

 

At least, that’s what Tony has determined for himself.

 

As much as he would love to blame his father, he can’t. It’s definitely warranted, but the man’s dead. Putting all the blame on him, even if he were alive, doesn’t excuse Tony. No one forced him to pick up a whiskey bottle. No one made those decisions for him.

 

Self-accountability isn’t fun, but it does come with a vague sense of peace.

 

But while he will hold himself accountable, which is more than many people would do, he doesn’t want to face all of what drove him _to_ drink. He had a shitty childhood? Not too difficult to tell people. He was struggling with guilt? Still is, but now he knows how to handle it differently. He felt alone?

 

Tony listens as Steve rifles through the linen closet.

 

Maybe not as alone as he sometimes thinks.

 

“Alright. Up and at ‘em,” Steve orders, tossing a pile of towels and sweats on the coffee table. Tony makes a grunt of protest and scrunches up his face. Steve lets out a soft laugh and suddenly a hot, dry palm is pressing gently onto Tony’s forehead, and a thumb is brushing at the corners of his eyes. It’s nice. It’s always nice when Steve touches him. Tony enjoys touching Steve, but there’s something about Steve initiating the contact that makes him especially pleased.

 

He lets out a soft mewl of contentment, which turns into an annoyed squawk as Steve tosses a fresh set of underwear in his face. “Get dressed. I’ll get your coffee.”

 

Regretfully, Tony emerges from his cocoon of damp afghans and peels off his tee shirt and briefs. He doesn’t bother covering up. Why would Steve be looking at a naked Tony Stark?

 

Steve talks as Tony does what he can to dry himself and puts on the clean clothing. Nothing of consequence, just inane chatter about missions that Tony doesn’t need to know, but it does the job of filling the still heavy air that hangs over the night like a pall, and drowning out the drip of water from outside. Tony can’t forget, not for a second, why he has called Steve here, and Steve has always remained vigilant about Tony’s drinking. But Steve does try to put him at ease when it counts, which Tony can only be grateful for.

 

These occurrences are always so surreal, because there are few people as direct as Steve about certain things. Sure, Steve would need a double-dose of emotional laxatives before you could even broach any sort of _feelings_ thing with him, and those sorts of conversations are just the _worst_ with him.

 

But Steve does have a gift for being the best at _being_.   Steve is crap at comfort, but giving solidarity? He wins the prize, every time. No one is better at simply just _being_ around Tony, giving human company while letting him get through whatever he need to in his head.

 

But at times like tonight, it just adds another layer to the bitterness at the insurmountable barrier that lies between whatever it is that they are now and the possibility of what could be if things were different, if they didn’t hurt each other so much, if Steve cared for him in the same way Tony always had.

 

Has. It never does anything but complicate and grow deeper, winding into the very essence of _Tony_ like oak roots. He is an alcoholic. The dark scares him, not because of the unknown, but because he _does_ know. He likes the smell of lavender; it reminds him of his mother. As much as he looks towards the future, he is terrified of being left in the past. He loves Steve with everything the twisted blackened thing that at one time might have been called his heart can muster. He doesn’t like sleeping alone. He always wants a drink. Every little thing that makes the man in the suit of armor tick.

 

He hopes that this will not be the storm that uproots him.

 

But he’s rusting.

 

The texture of rusting iron always intrigued him. It’s not pleasing in the slightest, but there was always some strange appeal to the powdery rough texture, and how different the dust was from sand or flour or something else. It was hard and metallic and _hurt_ , despite it being metal’s equivalent to decay. He still remembers making up new creatures to inhabit the future world during his youth, tiny mites that ate rust and thrived in the workshops of seedy starship mechanics.

 

Another hint of the damaged child. Instead of idealized pasts filled with magic, baby Tony dreamt up realistic futures full of decay.

 

He foregoes the sweatshirt Steve had brought in favor of forming a second, drier, blanket cocoon. The heat in the room has notched up a few degrees, but he burrows in deep, obscuring everything save his eyes and nose.

 

Maybe it could hold him together.

 

The token is warm in his palm. A reminder. He’s not alone.

 

“How are you going to drink this now?” Steve asks softly, as he comes bearing a cup of Earth’s second favorite black liquid.

 

Tony grunts, but with Steve’s help, they manage to loosen the blankets enough to free an arm. Soon enough, he is greedily slurping coffee and Steve is settling into the couch next to him after dumping a load of wet cloth into the wash.

 

Steve is quiet as Tony drains his cup. He fights a small battle with himself, because he knows Steve will wait until he is finished with the coffee before he tries to get him to talk. But he also wants the liquid to still be scalding as it goes down.

 

He finishes the coffee and sets the mug down gently, trying to preserve the stillness, but when Steve speaks, it isn’t what Tony expects.

 

“Do you . . . want to watch something?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay.” Steve nods, largely to himself. “Do you want more coffee?”

 

“No, Steve. I want you to say whatever it is I know you’re bursting to say.”

 

“Fine. What brought this . . . episode on?”

 

“What makes you think that something happened?”

 

“Because you called me at four in the morning and said you wanted to have a drink. Forgive me for worrying that something happened.”

 

Tony deflates slightly, but a spiteful, resentful spark still lurks in his mind. “I don’t need a reason.   I don’t know why it’s so bad tonight. But it just . . . is.”

 

Steve seems to accept that. “Tony, tell me something.” His brow wrinkles in concentration. “How often _do_ you want alcohol?”

 

“Every waking moment.”

 

“I know, but . . . how often is it as bad as tonight?”

 

Tony doesn’t really know, honestly. Can’t tell for the life of him the difference between moping ( _ahem_ , brooding) and being on the brink of throwing away all the work of the past few years. It’s always buzzing in the back of his head, that he can make all the thoughts and worries and pain go away with under a liter of liquid.

 

“I can’t say. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Usually I can drown out the desire with work, but tonight’s just one of those nights where I can’t.” Tony sighs and curls into himself a bit tighter. “All my thoughts and responsibilities . . . . Sometimes I just want it to all _go away_ , you know?”

 

“Do I ever. But usually I just try _sleep_.” It’s careful, void of any recrimination, and a fair bit welcome.

 

“Problems are still there when you wake up.”

 

“So too when the hangover hits.”

 

And Tony has to laugh at that.

 

It’s nice, like this. They aren’t yelling, they aren’t throwing caustic accusations, they aren’t rushing to save the world. Just Steve and Tony, calmly discussing Tony’s alcoholism with some cautious joshing. It’s something that Tony needs to try getting a bit more of in his life. Despite how heart-wrenching it is to think of the _what if_ s between them. What’s done is done, and all they can do is their best to move forward.

 

“Tony,” and damn, the sober tone is back. “Has it been like this all night?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Then why didn’t you call me sooner?”

 

It’s prickly question. Or at least, is to Tony. Because what can he say? He didn’t want to be faced with the icon of righteousness while laid low? That staving off the liquor was better than facing a mad Cap? Or worse, disappointed? That all Tony really wants is to crawl into a bed that has been warmed by Steve? That in some twisted part of his mind, he thinks having Steve’s love will cure Tony?

 

But that’s not the right thing to think. He’s already damaged beyond repair, and no one can fix him. Yet he’s tempted, because if he worded it right, maybe he could guilt Steve into some semblance of a relationship. Because Steve would want to help, in any way possible, because that’s just what Steve does.

 

It would be a sham, and it would be painful as hell, but he’s weak. Weak enough right now to try it, because more than anything right now, he wants to drink away what burns and festers within, the insurmountable canyon between them. Close enough to see and hear, but never touch. And crossing it would be suicide.

 

Having Steve and at the same time not having him . . . it would drive him out of his mind, out of his skin. Vulnerable and weak as he is, Tony has no desire to die. Because he figured long ago that both having Steve and not would kill him.

 

Much easier to suffer. Much easier to bite his tongue.

 

Because he still has Steve, albeit not as fully as he might want him.

 

But friends have always been better for him in the long run.

 

“I thought you would be mad at me,” he says, voice small.

 

Steve sighs. He does a lot of sighing where Tony is concerned, it seems. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done that would ever make you believe that.”

 

“You mean besides all the times were you tell me off for trying to implement a solution that you refuse to compromise on?”

 

Steve balls up a fist and clenches his jaw, but only lightly brings his hand down on the armrest as he breathes through his nose. “That’s work,” Steve says tightly. “Leave it to work hours.”

 

“Says the man who’s entire life is his job.”

 

Tony doesn’t know why tonight is the night for poking and prodding at the tender spots between them, but the night has left him feeling raw and exposed and a little too longing. Bringing Steve down to his level, and leaving him just as raw and exposed, foregoing the longing on Steve’s part. Though wishing with every atom it could be.

 

Love is fire. Something unique to man. Something dangerous. Classified by some as tool, by others an untamable force of nature. Dangerous. Very dangerous. It burns when it gets too close to the core of one’s being. But cold is another danger.

 

Tony knows the cold well. So does Steve.

 

Steve has yet to say anything.

 

“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just not been easy tonight, okay? Don’t take what I’m saying seriously.”

 

Steve breathes out like a gust. “I’m here for you Tony, but I didn’t come up here to be attacked.”

 

“I’m just in one of those moods, you know? The I-feel-like-shit-so-I-want-to-hurt-everyone-I-love mood.” And he freezes, because that’s too close, too close to the unspoken truth and not something he should have ever uttered in another person’s presence, and especially not in front of the man himself.

 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice, thankfully and unfortunately. “No, I get it. I’d be a hypocrite if I gave you shit for it. I’ve been there before.”

 

“Before? What, you’re never going to be in one of those moods ever again?”

 

Steve smiled ruefully. “I’m _trying_ to be better.”

 

“Oh really?”

 

“Of course.” Steve reaches over and roughly tousles his hair. “I’m Captain America. It’s my shtick. And besides, I’ve got one hell of a role model for being better, now don’t I?”

 

Usually, Steve’s praise warms Tony to the core, but today it only burns.

 

“You said you didn’t come up here to be attacked. Why did you, then?”

 

“I can’t want to help you? I don’t want you to backslide, Tony. You’ve come too far since then. I don’t want see the man I . . . respect and admire so much, and who has done uncountable things for the good of mankind and the universe brought down by something as little as addiction.”

 

“Little?”

 

“You’re stronger than your impulses. I know you. If you’re not going to believe in yourself, then I guess I’ll have to do it for you.”

 

“Steve. Thanks.”

 

“Never a problem.”

 

They once again lull into silence. It’s weighted, but not as tense as before. Steve is visibly fighting with himself over saying something, but Tony can’t for the life of him pin it.

 

“Tony, I’ve come to . . . an understanding, about us. I’ve been thinking. So much has happened between us, and we never have time to say it . . . but I apologize. Of how I act sometimes. I can’t say it’ll never happen again, but . . . you mean more to me than that.”

 

“Steve – “

 

“What – what I’m _trying_ to say – fuck – is that, whatever happens, whatever unforgiveable thing I think you’ve done – damn it!” Steve fists the armrest until Tony hears ominous cracking. Steve backs off, breathing thickly through his nose. “Tony.” And it is in every way Tony had ever wanted to hear, forlorn and desperate and filled with a burdened longing, loneliness that only Tony could cure. “At – at the end of the day, you’re _you_ , and that’s what matters. You’re you and you’re there, fighting me at every turn, making me think, challenging me. You’re the only one who does and can make it get through my skull. And sometimes I wish – I wish –“

 

“That it didn’t have to be this way?”

 

“I want to know what we would be like if we didn’t have the weight of the world hanging over us. Worlds. The galaxy. The universe. _Universes_.” The bitter, humorless noise that came from Steve’s mouth was inhuman. “I want to know what we’d be if it weren’t for _everything_ that has somehow damaged us. But,” and Steve’s voice dropped, terribly small and nothing like he should ever sound like. “Then we wouldn’t be _us_ , now would we?”

 

“Nah, but there's no good in wondering.  We're us. We’re both pains in each other’s asses, but it keeps us in check. Part of the reason we’re both terrible and perfect together. You being a stubborn ass is part of why I love you.”

 

Tony jolts, needing to turn back time, only a few seconds because now he’s done it. He’s gone and fucked it all up. He’s taken a pair of cutters to the delicate wire that they have wound between them. Severed. And nothing will be the same.

 

But Steve doesn’t react the way Tony expects him too.

 

Steve turns away from him, face scrunched like he’s biting back a scream of pain. “Don’t. Please. Don’t.”

 

“Listen Steve, I’m not going to lie and try and take it back, but you don’t – “

 

“Don’t feed me the things I want to hear. Not now. Just, stop.”

 

“That you want to hear . . . ?” Tony can’t say he hasn’t entertained the idea of Steve’s reciprocation, but if it is _real_ . . . they need definitive proof. “Steve. Do you love me?”

 

The hardest question of his life slips out like a dream.

 

“I always have.”

 

“Then _fuck_ – “ Steve is turning around, sorrow in his eyes, but Tony is having none of it, after all this time were they _honestly_ . . . .

 

Steve’s lap is warm. It fits well into the cradle of Tony’s hips. Like they were made for each other. And yes, Tony will entertain that ridiculous notion, because they have come across time and space and foiled death so many times, just to be here, and it is more than what he could have ever have imagined, because _fuck_ , he’s been out in the cold so long, and Steve is always warm, and he’s home. He’s always been home.

 

He can be a bit of a sap right now.

 

“I love you,” Tony whispers between rapid pecks to Steve’s lax face, his lips and cheeks and eyes.  “I love you. I’ve loved you for so fucking long, and I know it’s not enough – “ he kisses the tip of Steve’s nose and comes away slowly “ – but it’s all I have.”

 

Steve is completely still, eyelashes fanning softly over the bags under his eyes. His breathing is quick and shallow, and when he finally speaks, it’s a croak. “Am I dreaming? Tell me I’m gonna get a call in a second, and none of this will be real – “ he yelps as Tony digs his nails sharply into the tender flesh behind his ears.

 

“You’re not dreaming.”

 

“But I always have been before.”

 

They stare at each other, and it’s like one of those moments when Tony sees every bolt and transistor laid out perfectly in his mind. He and Steve have messed up before, of _course_ they would spend years circling and pining and convincing themselves it was all wishful thinking, when it wasn’t. It was Steve actually staring at Tony in wonder and love, and not just admiration.

 

Then they’re kissing, and now that Steve is an active participant it’s just south of heaven. It’s not gentle, but it’s not bruising. It’s an extension of what they’ve always had: one pushing, the other pulling, each one giving as good as they get. Pressing against one another, and molding everything into completion.

 

There isn’t necessarily any right way to kiss, but there are some wrong ways. Steve’s not what Tony would call skilled, but it’s not as though Steve spend a ton of time making out with people. He’s got slightly too much in terms of teeth, but Tony likes it. It’s fierce, brave even, but it so goddamn fucking honest. This is what Steve wants, and Tony can do nothing but reciprocate.

 

Tony’s hands scrabble for purchase, almost clawing Steve’s arms, head, back, but he ends up with his hands cupping Steve hard jaw, the tips of his middle fingers pressed into the hollows beneath Steve’s ears, the token burning between their skin. Steve keeps his hands squarely on Tony’s hips, not roaming but not letting go either.

 

It would probably look awkward from the outside: a grown man balanced in the lap of an only slightly larger man, but Tony doesn’t care. Steve holds on too tight for him to even think of moving. Only when Tony shifts closer and feels _something_ (hello, nice to see you too), that he breaks away from Steve’s mouth.

 

“Do you want to – “ he grinds down meaningfully “ - move this somewhere else?”

 

“Tony.” Steve is flushing and pink and smiling like he hasn’t in years. “There’s no point in you trying to do anything that’ll make me stay. I’m not going anywhere.” He reverently runs a palm down the side of Tony’s face, achingly tender. “You gave me a home.”

 

“You _are_ my home.”

 

And Tony realizes just how tired he is. The type of bone deep weariness that you can only fully appreciate when you’re finally able to finally sleep.

 

He’s home. No need to try anything.

 

“Okay. Bed. No sex. But we’re doing that cuddling thing, right?”

 

 

 

With upmost care, Tony places the bronze token on the nightstand where it always stays, before he allows himself to be tucked in.

 

The storm is over.  Has been for some time.  It stopped as soon as Steve had carried him in.  (Funny, that.)  Now it's just hot summer rain, washing everything, blurring everything brighter, and making him sleepy.

 

Steve is still worried Tony might catch a chill, but pick your battles, blah blah, and he's not going to argue with Steve coddling him right now.  He pulls more blankets out of the closet (really, when did he get so many blankets?) and spreads them out over Tony like paper mâché or some other thing that involves layers. Like a cake.

 

“A Tony cake with blanket frosting,” he mutters to himself.

 

“What was that?” Steve asks, and Tony can’t see (there’s a blanket in his face) but he can hear Steve smiling as he spreads a last duvet over the bed. It’s all heavy on his chest, but unlike the reactor sitting on his lungs, it’s a comforting weight.

 

“Never mind. I talk crazy when I'm tired. Just get in here.” Steve laughs lightly and strips down to his boxer briefs and tee shirt and crawls in beneath the covers.

 

“Maybe you used one too many blankets,” Tony muses as a familiar arm eases under him and pulls him into alignment with Steve’s body. He lightly ghosts the upper part of his thigh across Steve’s groin.

 

“Tony, go to sleep,” Steve orders, voice muffled from where he has buried his face in Tony’s hair.

 

“I’m not tired anymore,” Tony offers innocently.

 

“Like hell you aren’t.” His words lower to a heavy rasp. “We’ll both be here in the morning. I’m not going anywhere. Sleep.”

 

He’s not going to push it. He has Steve in his bed, willingly, with the promises of tomorrow dulling the pains of the night.

 

He still wants a drink. But maybe for now, he can push it to the back of his head.

 

Tony burrows deeper into Steve, and lets his mind go blessedly blank.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to practice writing porn, so maybe I’ll write a morning after.
> 
> You get bonus points if you know what Ajax Liquor Store is.


End file.
